


Mama Don't Dance

by glinda4thegood



Category: Lone Gunmen
Genre: Gen, Lone Gunmen - Freeform, Tango
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-18
Updated: 2011-02-18
Packaged: 2017-10-15 18:21:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/163586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glinda4thegood/pseuds/glinda4thegood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Byers muses about lessons learned from Jimmy Bond. Post <i>Tango de los Pistoleros</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Mama Don't Dance

Title: **MAMA DON'T DANCE**  
Author: Glinda  
Rating: PG-13  
Disclaimer: Not mine. No profit. Much love.  
Timeline: Post-Tango musing by Byers.

 

 _Sometimes I think God deliberately sent Jimmy into our lives._

Not in an act of compassion (for Jimmy _or_ for us), but one of judgment. It's as if He checked the cumulatives one day and saw our grade point had slipped well below average in the areas of empathy, patience, and appreciation for . . . well let's call it intellectual diversity. So instead of a bumbling angel, God -- being God -- fingers the one He knows will do the best job of showcasing our shortcomings.

It took me a while to get the message. I was too busy thinking of _Jimmy's_ differences as shortcomings.

Jimmy is literal, naive, and technologically incompetent. He's also surprisingly observant about what's going on with people, and sensitive to how they're reacting and feeling. We're supposed to be the crack investigators, right? Lately when our eyes have been focused on something nearly invisible on the horizon, Jimmy's have been watching the ground under our feet. Whether we admit it or not, he seems to have some essentially human resources we've neglected in ourselves.

There was a time, and not so long ago, when I would have been the one rushing to Yves' side, to offer words of consolation and support. Whatever our feelings -- my feelings -- about Yves, such an act should have been ordinary, simple kindness. Instead it was Jimmy who offered her the quiet sympathy we should all have expressed.

I've spent too much time thinking about love, and too little time loving. I know there's a brittle wall around parts of me since Susanne left, and inside that wall there's scorched earth I've neglected to tend. This is not a good excuse for growing callous and self-absorbed. God may have been pointing this out lately.

Why Yves would feel anything for Santavos was the only question in my mind when we bailed on her. A criminal, a killer, a selfish opportunist . . . no decent woman would fall for a guy like that. But decent women fall for men like that everyday. Why? And why is it so hard to show those women that love doesn't have to be mysterious, dangerous, harmful and ultimately fatal?

Look at me, God, advising against mystery and danger. I'm still wallowing in _what if_ and _maybe_. I'm the selfish one.

Frohike says it was Yves and the tango, not Yves and Santavos, that were emotionally involved. He says there's something powerful that happens when a woman surrenders complete control to a man in a situation that is intimate without intimacy, and the stronger the woman, the more seductive the surrender becomes. He thinks Yves is a strong, lonely woman who doesn't take the time to look into her own depths, and maybe this incident is a warning to her.

I didn't ask him if he thought that, why he didn't talk to her afterwards. The magnificent El Lobo had his own _what ifs_ and _should haves_ going on. But Yves might have listened to him. She seems to like and respect Frohike for all their banter, and words of experience, coming from him, might have been accepted.

My experience is so different. Stiff, repressed, with two left feet. So I can't tango. So what? Part of me still wonders if God really disapproves of high school dances. Auditioning for the tango competition made me sweat. I remembered lying to dad and telling him I was going to study at someone's house, then going to a dance instead, only to watch from the sidelines while the other kids enjoyed "sexually arousing infernal gyrations." That was what they called it at church anyway, or "vertical sex" if they were joking in the parking lot.

I never got the hang of it. My parents didn't dance, either. I wonder if Yves's did . . .

There's a lot I don't know about Yves, and it strikes me that our rush to judge her may say something about the way we feel about our own small transgressions along the way.

See, I'm back to thinking about me and us again. I'm ashamed to admit that we've been set a good example by Jimmy. I'm more ashamed that some smarty-pants know-it-all part of me actually dismissed Jimmy as an inferior because of his differences.

It's ironic that one of the worst, and most common, diseases a journalist can get is empathic blindness. Until Jimmy came into our lives I didn't realize how cynical and aloof I had become. It's been gradual, and steady, and honestly Frohike and Langly are very poor role models.

So: I'm slow, but I'm not stupid. I'm rhythm-impaired but not joyless. I'm lonely, but I'm also willing to look into my own depths and . . . well, that might be a little premature.

Anyway, I can do better. I don't pray as often as I should, but tonight I'll tell God I get the message about Jimmy. And say thanks.


End file.
